


E is for Endurance

by KateKintail



Series: The ABC Series 2012 [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 02:03:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KateKintail/pseuds/KateKintail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam tries to keep up with Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	E is for Endurance

**Author's Note:**

> Part of a collection of short H/C ficlets. I asked on one of my LiveJournals for a one word for each letter of the alphabet, as well as a fandom and/or pairing.

“You okay, Sammy?” Dean’s voice sounded calm, steady. Damn him.   
  
They’d been running through the woods for fifteen minutes now. There was a stitch in Sam’s side that hurt like hell as he ran. Due to the fact that his legs were longer than his brother’s, his stride helped him keep up better. Sam gathered his energy and managed a breathy “…f-fine…” The work came out strained, choked. And it made him cough, slow, so he had to work harder to match Dean.  
  
“Too much time sitting behind a desk. You’re outa practice.”  
  
Sam ignored the pain and his brother’s comments as he concentrated on running. “I can… keep up,” he insisted, the energy he spent from talking making him fall a few feet behind.  
  
*  
  
“You okay, Sammy?” Dean called from the other side of the room, where he’d just tricked a demon under a devil’s trap.   
  
Sam thrust forward again with the knife. This time, it made contact with the demon, but instead of glancing off, it stuck between two ribs. Sam felt it slip out of his hand and send him falling forward past the monster. His knife was lost, as was his control of the situation. The demon charged at him, and he only just rolled out of the way in time. “Fine!” Sam called out, springing to his feet again.  
  
He was out of breath, with nothing but bare hands and brains that wouldn’t be much help to him right now. And that was when Dean pumped it full of rock salt. Distracted and angry, it broke off its attack on Sam and went after Dean. Side-stepping, Dean directed it straight under the Devil’s trap. Two demons. One trap. Those weren’t bad odds.   
  
“Fighting skills are a little rusty,” Dean said before whipping out the pocket notebook and reading the spell in Latin. When both had been incinerated, he reached in and retrieved Sam’s knife.  
  
Sam took it and brushed the ash off with a mumbled, “Thanks.”  
  
*  
  
“You okay, Sammy?” Dean was the one with the seven-inch gash running down his leg. Dean was the one with the broken right hand, keeping him from stitching himself up. And, yet, Dean was the one asking Sam if he were all right.  
  
And Sam didn’t have a good answer. Sweat dripped from his forehead down his face in slow trails as he crouched down with needle and thread. Every breath he took was work and pain seized him sharply as if to tell him to cut it out and just stop breathing already. “Fine,” Sam whispered as the needle pierced Dean’s skin again. Instead of sucking in a breath, Dean calmly took a swig from his flask.   
  
Sam did the best he could before his hands started tingling. Light-headed and shaky, Sam stumbled away, wrapping an arm around his middle. The stitches were done; that was what was important. The fact that he was about to die was less so.   
  
Dean hopped over and placed a hand on Sam’s back. “You look like shit.”  
  
Sam winced, less from the immense pain and more from the pain of admitting he was as far from fine as possible. “Think I broke a few ribs when I got thrown down the stairs back there.”   
  
Dean nodded, led him to the bed, and shook a couple Aspirin from the bottle.   
  
*  
  
“You okay, Sammy?” Dean devoured his double-bacon cheeseburger, juice dripping down the sides of his hands and onto the paper in the little plastic tray.   
  
Sam stared down at the remaining half of his salad. Was it possible to get food poisoning from salad? He didn’t feel feverish; this couldn’t be a flu. But his stomach was definitely queasy in a way it definitely hadn’t been before he’d started eating. “Fine,” he said, stabbing a tomato with his fork.   
  
“Eat up. Gotta be back on the road in ten.” Dean plunked down cash for the meal and a tip proportionate to the tightness of the waitress’s outfit.   
  
Sam gave his salad one more look. Then, with a hurried “Be right back!” he bolted for the bathroom before he could tell Dean that maybe a tip wasn’t appropriate this time. He squeezed himself into a stall, folded himself on the floor, and berated himself for not even being able to keep up with Dean when he was eating.   
  
*  
  
“You okay, Sammy?” Dean grinned down at Sam, who he was straddling in bed.  
  
Sam thrust forward, cock sliding against Dean’s slick hand. They’d been at this for hours, neither man willing to be the first to give into orgasm, both men enjoying the build-up far too much. Soft, tender touches had finally given way to grabs and firm strokes and bodies pushing against each other. Sam looked up into his brother’s eyes and, finally, smiled. “Better than fine, Dean.” He thrust again, hard and dripping. But the movement made Dean slide deeper into him. Dean slid out again, but the motion was so good, it turned into a rocking rhythm he couldn’t resist.  
  
Dean groaned and tried to hang on. But Sam’s hands cupped his ass cheeks, squeezing, then pulling him closer. Buried deep, Dean cried out, back curved, head thrown back, an orgasm making his face flush behind the freckles.   
  
Satisfied to have finally held out longer for once, Sam let himself come against Dean’s hand and chest.


End file.
